Domestic Violence
by Marcella Polman
Summary: House/Wilson. Is it love? Heck, yes. Is it eternal bliss? Hell, no. Slash. Complete.
1. Fuck you, House

**Author's note:**

I wrote this story a while ago. It was inspired by the many House/Wilson vids on youtube and my misconception of the 224 scene in which "House punches Wilson". As I live in Europe, I saw the scene long before I watched the episode, and I thought the blow was real. As a result, the story contains violence as well as angst, anger, love and m/m sex.

Characters are, obviously, not mine.

()()()

**Fuck you, House**

The hotel receptionist is unsurprised to see him. "Good night, Dr. Wilson," she says quietly as she hands him his keycard. She knows who he is and what he does for a living; he informed her about both his name and his profession the first time they met: a guest might become unwell, he had reckoned, and perhaps he could be of help.

He musters a smile and returns the receptionist's wish.

He knows exactly what the room will look like even before he opens the door. Over the course of years, he has seen virtually all rooms of the hotel, but number 25 is his regular. It's a good room. The hotel likes to have him as a regular guest, apparently.

He puts his suitcase down and washes his hands in the bathroom. Then he sits on the bed and rubs his temples against the upcoming headache. It's an anger headache and it isn't unexpected, but he is startled, yet again, at the realization that this is actually a rather new phenomenon to him. He used to enter hotel rooms feeling a mixture of relief, resignation, and of course, guilt. Until six months ago. Until he moved in with House on what was meant to be a permanent basis.

The headache throbs. He blinks at the wall and swears. "Fuck you, House!"

God, he is angry.

Being angry with House as such is nothing new, of course. It is, in fact, a feeling well known to anyone who ever so much as parted glances with the man. The magnitude of his rage is still unfamiliar to James however, even though this has been the fifth fight in six months.

He can't recall its exact cause, but he's certain House started it. House is always the one to start.

He feels his jaw. He doesn't need to look in the mirror to know that the bruise is darkening rapidly. He thinks about House's split lip.

"_Fuck _you, House."

()()()

The first time it happened, he instantly packed his suitcase and when he spat at House that he'd come back to collect the rest of his belongings tomorrow, he meant every word of it. As did House when he snarled, "Oh yes, please do!"

They both went to work the next day. James entered the hospital at a quarter to eight; House arrived at half past ten (no need on either side to change routine over this). Their appearances upset Cuddy and House's lackeys to various degrees.

Cameron was the first to address the subject. She came up to him in the hallway outside his office, a little out of breath.

"Dr. Wilson. James…."

He waited for her to continue.

"Do you think it was a wise decision to move in with House?" She blinked. "I mean, it's obvious that it doesn't do much for the happiness of either of you."

It was none of her business, of course, and he knew that his wellbeing wasn't of any true concern to her, but he took pity. To be confronted with proof of House's violence—the physical part of it—was hard on her. She'd grown accustomed to rationalizing the flaws of the man she admired so much—she practiced it daily, with a certain ingenuity and grace—but physical abuse wasn't easily explained away.

He told her he was planning to move out that very evening. At eleven a.m., it was the truth.

At noon, Foreman gave his considered opinion that it had been extremely stupid of Wilson to move into House's apartment. "You're going to kill each other some day," he said with apparent confidence in his prognosis.

Chase avoided saying anything at all about the state of House and Wilson's faces—at least to James. That was no surprise. Chase was an opportunist; he had medically unrelated opinions only if he could benefit from them.

Cuddy wanted James and House in her office at two, and she wasn't amused.

"Are you out of your minds?" she asked. Rhetorically, of course. "If this ever happens again, one of you is getting sacked."

James silently replaced 'one of you' by 'Wilson'.

Cuddy took a breath and declared, still miffed, that "patients in this hospital are entitled to be examined by doctors who bear some resemblance to actual doctors; and _no_ likeness to soldiers having recently returned from battle."

House pointedly tapped his cane on the floor. "Glad to hear that you finally saw reason on that one. And thank you very much for relieving me from clinic duty."

Cuddy shot him a glare. "Go," she said, waving her hand at the both of them. "And for God's sakes, don't multiply."

"We need to know more about domestic violence," House stated outside Cuddy's office. "How to inflict pain without leaving marks visible to third parties."

"Indeed, we do," James agreed. "Next time, before we attack each other, we really need to take a couple of seconds to contemplate where best to hit."

There was a beat. And eye contact. And a tightening feeling in James's chest. He was the first to look away.

"See you tonight, Wilson," House said. "Don't forget to bring your luggage from the hotel."

His voice was steady, but there was a hint of something revealing to James that House knew he could predict his friend's course of action with great accuracy, but also that he desperately wanted him to come home.

He stared after House's retreating figure. A damaged man, in more than one sense. Crippled. Sad. Cynical. The fucked up love of James's fucked up life, ready and willing to take on the next round of mutual destruction.

The pain in his chest returned. It spread to his limbs. He felt sick, like he was struck with a severe cold.

Withdrawal syndrome had already set in, and he knew he needed another shot.

He knew he needed to go home.

()()()

His stinging eyes tell him that sorrow is lurking, but he blinks a few times and clenches his teeth. It's too soon for sadness; he still needs to be angry.

"Fuck you, House."

He repeats it, louder this time.

He starts to pace. He has never been a hotel room pacer, until six months ago.

He suspects the hotel personnel noticed some significant changes setting in at the time. A shortening of the intervals between visits, a sharp decrease in the duration of his stays. The bruises, the scratches, the occasional limping. (It turned out that practice doesn't make perfect, but although patients may look a little puzzled at the occasionally dented appearances of their doctors, most of them seem to think that a sorrow shared is a sorrow halved, so there hasn't been a reason for Cuddy to fire Wilson.)

The sudden ceasing of telephone conversations in the lobby or the dining room may have surprised the hotel staff as well. Most used to involve discussions on how to handle yet another divorce, and about a possible reconciliation with the current Mrs. Wilson. (House never failed to mention that—and his estimates of James being able to successfully perform marital resuscitation were always ludicrously high. James assumes the only reason House chose this conduct was that he knew the chances of a Wilson-Wilson appeasement to be close to zero.)

He reckons that rage looks different on him than resignation does. It sure as hell feels different.

He lies down on the bed. His heart is racing; he is sweating and breathing heavy.

He unbuckles his belt, unzips his pants. He slides his hand inside his briefs. He is hard.

"Fuck you, House."

He starts to stroke with angry strokes.

He is barging into the apartment, dragging and pushing House towards the bedroom, stripping him of his clothes, forcing him onto his stomach, entering him, and fucking him through the mattress. Pouring everything that binds him to House—rage, passion, love—into Gregg's ass.

"Fuck… you… House."

The final strokes are emphasized by words. His back muscles relax and he feels the hotel bed catch him. He opens his eyes. His heart rate is slowing, and so is his breathing. He waits for the post-ejaculation bliss to have completely subsided before he rises to change his sperm stained shirt for a clean one.

He's calmer now. Most of his anger is gone, and he knows that longing and sorrow are about to claim him.

He also knows that some of the rage will return, and that he'll use it to show House that James Wilson is not to be toyed with.

Tomorrow, when he is going home.

Again.


	2. Waiting for Wilson

Waiting for Wilson

**Waiting**** for Wilson**

He starts playing the piano but stops after three bars and pops a Vicodin. He's feeling sick and he's aching all over, but he knows that the Vicodin is not going to help him much now. It isn't going to take away his withdrawal symptoms. Nor will the Bourbon, and yet he takes a sip.

He has always known that depending on people is a bad idea. He prefers substances. At fourteen, he discovered booze; at sixteen, it was his best friend.

The words cause an ache in his throat, but he washes it away with a gulp of Bourbon. After the infarction, Vicodin became a more important companion than alcohol, but booze still is a good buddy. He takes another pill with another sip. Substances may be difficult to obtain sometimes (due to the whims of people mostly) but they neither run nor reject.

People do.

He closes the piano with an accidental bang. The clock tells him it's almost nine. He growls. He nearly can't take it anymore.

Anticipation isn't a mixed blessing; it's living hell.

He stands and stumbles towards the couch, but finds he can't sit still.

God, this is getting out of control.

He closes his eyes. The movie starts. He knows it well.

()()()

It always begins with the particulars of the last fight—the wording of insults, the location of blows—but soon it cuts to the night Wilson turned up to move in to live with him. The turning up as such didn't signify any major change in their relationship, and the suitcase and bags Wilson had brought could easily have implied yet another impending divorce, but the look on James's face could not, and nor could his words.

"Are you sure about this, House?"

"Yeah, come on in."

His voice was rough with an edge of indifference that he put in there deliberately, but he had to force himself not to drag Wilson over the doorstep and pin him against the wall before kissing the snot out of him, and to let him step inside on his own volition instead.

The pinning did happen though, as did the kissing. House smashed his lips against Wilson's and probed him with his tongue until they were both out of breath and his leg gave out on him.

"Bedroom," Dr. Wilson ordered.

House quickly dry swallowed a Vicodin. They had done this before.

He knew how to bring Wilson to complete surrender, to strip him of the ability to do anything other than breathe, "God, House, I…. Oh, God, please…. Please, House… House…."

Wilson knew how to drive House out of his mind, to make him swear from pleasure. They knew their 'sex kit' had to contain Vicodin besides condoms and a lubricant—or at some point House's leg would loudly declare that the fun they were having was, in fact, no fun at all.

They knew it would be good. Better than anything else.

They were right.

The movie behind House's eyelids cuts to the morning after Wilson had moved in with him.

He was making breakfast (men in love do crazy things) when Wilson appeared in the doorway. His hair was tousled, and traces of sleep rendered his face soft looking, making his dark eyes stand out brightly.

House didn't say, "I love you." It wasn't as bad as that. But he did hear his voice tremble dangerously when he said, "God, you're beautiful."

The left corner of Wilson's mouth quirked a little. "House? Are you sure you're all right?"

The shock he felt at his emotional nakedness was kissed away by James's soft lips and agile tongue, but that didn't prevent House from reminding himself never to be without irony again.

()()()

He opens his eyes. He hasn't been without irony since he was nine. In his teenage years, he added sarcasm to his repertoire, and cynicism after the infarction. He still has the ability of being sincere, but prefers not to use it too often. Sincerity is easily taken for weakness.

House isn't weak. He knows it's better to reject than to be rejected. He knows how to pick up a fight, especially with Wilson. He knows what words to use to hurt James most, how to brace himself against Wilson's retaliations, how to make him pack his suitcase and leave.

One might think that House is the rejectee in this process, but he's not. He provokes the rejection; he starts it. He's the one in control.

He knows Wilson. The magnitude of James's rescue complex is historically unprecedented, but the man's healing powers are his true tragedy.

In his private life, that is. When it comes to his profession it's an asset, House has to admit. But Wilson's interest in _patients_—as opposed to cases—never ceases to amaze and annoy him. According to the apparent Wilson adage, oncology isn't about curing cancer; it's about enhancing the quality of patients' lives.

And James does some fervent enhancing at Princeton-Plainsboro, seeing no harm at all in resorting to other than medical measures, like providing personal attention, and—oh, horror—actually _caring_.

In House's opinion, a good physician doesn't care for his patients; he's interested in curing their diseases. Or—on a more fundamental level—in finding out what the fuck is wrong with them.

House is interested in solving complex riddles. A patient's cure is of importance only because it can be objectively measured to prove that he found the right diagnosis. The quality of a patient's life is of no concern to him.

But he has to admit—again—that neither Wilson's preoccupation with people's wellbeing, nor his talent for curing them, has any detrimental effect on his professional functioning.

It's his private life where things go wrong, because James is addicted to damsels in distress.

Over the course of time, House noticed that the Wilson's fiancés all could have been cover girls for 'Female Vulnerability Weekly'. (He suspects James subscribed to this magazine at fifteen—the age he himself was stealing Playboys and Penthouses from stores, just like any normal guy). Former Mrs. Wilsons however, are without exception icons for feminism.

James heals his wives, and once mended, they have no need for him anymore, nor do they provide a challenge to him. Hence, divorce.

Being addicted to healing his lovers, that's Wilson's true tragedy.

House knows himself to be damaged, in more than one sense. He also knows he needs to stay damaged, or Wilson will lose interest.

He's not in any imminent danger to be mended. Being annoyed with Wilson when they spend too much time together comes natural to him. He can only take so much caring before it becomes smothering and causes a desperate longing to be able to breathe freely again. But the thought of Wilson growing weary of _his_ company brings on full-blown panic attacks and has him gasp for breath even more. Then he knows they need a break. That's when he starts a fight.

It usually matches the previous ones in messiness, with Wilson giving as good as he gets—and storming out of the apartment at some point.

The first hour House experiences nothing but relief. He can breathe again. He is free again. He doesn't need anybody. Two bottles—one filled with Vicodin; the other with Bourbon—a tivoed episode of the L-word on mute on the tube, and House is a content man.

During the second hour, withdrawal kicks in. Thoughts of Wilson start to haunt him. Sweet thoughts.

Of Wilson's skilled hands kneading his right thigh on really bad leg days—the feeling more soothing than a fistful of Vicodin ever can be. Of the sight of Wilson's nape, always causing a lump in House's throat—and one between his legs.

Of Wilson's surprisingly smart retorts to House's mocking. Of his boyish victorious grins.

Happy. Wilson makes him happy. It's a good thing he only realizes that after a fight. Being happy and actually realizing it _in the moment_ would be horrendous. Happiness is a very dangerous emotion. It has to be terminated as soon as possible—to prevent dependency on the person providing it.

As hours pass, and p.m. slips into a.m. only to slip into p.m. again, House's anticipation of Wilson's return takes on aching heights.

James will be still mad, still violent. He'll take control, as to prove to House that he is not to be toyed with—and that's only fair.

House never resists the pushing and shoving—or the undressing. Or the buggery. It always hurts—despite the Vicodin he pops as soon as he hears the door—because Wilson is rough and doesn't bother to get the lube. But it's always good.

Afterwards, James is completely guilt-ridden. House turns him belly-up, gets the lubricant, starts to finger fuck Wilson's ass. Gently.

He claims James' mouth, which welcomes him like a thirsting man's does water. Desperate, the claiming is—and the being claimed.

When Wilson is all slick and loose, House removes his fingers and guides his cock into the crease of James' ass, pushing inside. He doesn't remove his mouth.

He rocks his hips. The hollow of Wilson's mouth becomes softer. James is melting.

"God, House, I…."

House is melting too.

I love you.

He doesn't say it, but he knows it's true. Without a doubt. Without a hint of fear. He's well aware of the liquid, open, vulnerable feeling he can only bear at times like this, during the aftermath of a bout of domestic violence.

()()()

It's nine o' clock now. He pops a Vicodin. It's supposed to have a relaxing effect, but it doesn't. House isn't surprised. When he's in a state like this, nothing helps, except of course an overdose of some kind.

But he doesn't want to OD. He wants Wilson. He yearns to experience the aftermath feeling again. He yearns to extract another "God, House, I…." from Wilson's lips. He even craves Wilson's manhandling him.

He yearns for James to come home.

Again.

END


End file.
